


A Sinking Feeling

by oneeyed_hellhound



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drowning, really only hinted slick/trace, thalassophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:32:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneeyed_hellhound/pseuds/oneeyed_hellhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was pretty surprising, all things considered. Slick never really felt anything either way about the rain, about water. Sure, he guessed when his coat got wet in a torrential downpour, it kind of annoyed him, but that wasn’t really on his radar as distressing. Hell, he even liked storms sometimes, liked the flashes of lightning and growl of the brooding heavens, mirroring his usual moodiness. He didn’t mind puddles, or anything stupid like that. Because it would be stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sinking Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> this one is really old so the plot is kinda stiff, but i thought it was worth saving in any event. a fear-fic based on the headcanon of slick having thalassophobia

It was pretty surprising, all things considered. Slick never really felt anything either way about the rain, about water. Sure, he guessed when his coat got wet in a torrential downpour, it kind of annoyed him, but that wasn’t really on his radar as distressing. Hell, he even liked storms sometimes, liked the flashes of lightning and growl of the brooding heavens, mirroring his usual moodiness. He didn’t mind puddles, or anything stupid like that. Because it would be stupid.

He had a bad habit of leading odd trains of thought when in mortal danger. Maybe it was to cope, maybe he was as nutso as some people made him out to be, chronically taking his own survival for granted and brushing off life-threatening situations with a shrug and a stab. Either way, the whole string of musings over his own psyche flashed by as he was dragged, half-snarling half-thrashing, down the pier by one of the Felt’s big muscle, hard to make out which in the shadowy night, silhouetted by the oily yellow of distant lamplight and the sheen of asphalt streets. Oh, and the glow of that damn cigarette, eyes dripping with honeyed, poisonous contempt. Her. Waiting at the end of the dock, black water reflecting cold moonlight from between gaps in the exhaust-fueled cloud cover.

Slick wasn’t afraid of puddles.

But that was a very. Very. Big puddle.

\----

It was far after dusk when he’d stalked down to the city’s waterfront, hefting the ace of spades in one hand, feeling the cold, comforting metal weight. There were rumors that the green shits were slinking around this part of town, edging into Crew territory as if they owned the place. Well, if they were so angsty to spend time in the area, they could spend the rest of forever in it. Dead, he meant. He blinked, snarling. God what an awful line, where the hell did that come from… If they were so angsty to spend time here, they would have to….They’d better think to….Shit. He huffed, kicking a smashed bottle on the sidewalk in frustration.

Well, it looked clear, as far as he could tell. Of course, that didn’t make him any less on edge, maybe even more so. He hated when it was quiet, and around here, there wasn’t even the echo of slow smoky jazz from a nearby club. Hell, why did this part of town exist, it smelled like salt water and dead fish and oil, and there wasn’t any action. He supposed, even for his hyperactive alertness, the place was quiet enough to pass. He should meet back up with the rest of the Crew, high tail it to the noisy buzz of nocturnal bars, or the quiet shifting of those near closing time, both more enticing than the dead atmosphere around here. He turned a corner, making his way back to where they had split up.

There. A flash of movement, and his eyes narrowed, focusing in like a motion detector on the green. Which one… ah. Hell, they were getting sloppy, sending out that slow piece of shit, of all people. The one with the Two….Doze, yeah. He slipped in step behind the shuffling figure, giving a wolfish smirk that flashed in the low light and preparing to strike the horse hitcher square against his skull. But first he tapped it on his shoulder— every guy had the right to see his death coming, to at least have a second to react. Call it old fashioned, call it another oddball quirk of his warped but iron-clad moral code. The Felt froze, slowly turning with startled eyes to stare at Slick, who wore a smug grin that fit like a glove on the razor angles of his face.

He really should have expected it; like hell if Doze ever did anything alone. Maybe he was itching for a commotion a little too much, jumping the gun on the first chance. Maybe it was late, and he just wanted to be over with it. Maybe he was just a goddamn idiot in the first place who decided tonight was the night to be overly reckless without anything to gain from it. Like it mattered why it happened, either way someone had the jump on him from behind, grabbing him in a choke hold before he even had his viper reflexes to work with. Hell, he hated when people did that— it wasn’t even a true choke hold, just grabbing the scruff of his neck and using his height (or lack there of) against him, hanging him near-dangling in the air, scrabbling for a foothold and wheezing. It did something to him, something he thought no one else knew about, reflexively freezing up against the grip on his neck, only giving a vicious snarl and a kick back against whatever lug was holding him. He hated it, he hated being so damn reckless, he hated the fact that these green creeps managed to get the good end of the stick on this one, he hated most of all that only one person of the Felt could know how he reacted like this, seizing up like a goddamn puppy and flailing as whoever it was dragged him, hand clamped over his mouth firmly to make sure teeth like broken glass didn’t latch onto the nearest flash of green in sight. So he resorted to staying coiled like a loaded spring, breath snorting through his nose like a racehorse with a few mixed-in growls, waiting for any opportunity as they moved deeper in the waterfront, towards the docks. Any opportunity. And when it came, everyone in a fifty foot radius would wish, bloodied and broken, they’d never set foot in Midnight City, much less tangle with the hell hound himself.

\----  

The end of the cigarette glowed in an indigo night, briefly illuminating her face, those eyes. Those eyes. They drilled holes in him, seeing right through everything he built up, all the effort, sweat, blood, everything he did to make himself a new person. And what was left? Her underling, as usual. He growled, panting around the grip on his throat, toes barely touching the pier beneath him. His eyes locked with hers, defying that contempt, zeroing in on her every move.

“Spades.” She exhaled, bluish smoke curling out of her mouth like an escort to the words that rolled out just as smoothly, just as levelly. “You’re getting careless, dear, it’ll be the death of you someday.” The pit of bile and nervous tension he held every second of every day wound tighter, a thorn digging into his stomach with each word, suspicion piling onto nagging piling onto the sure sinking feeling of what would happen.

Speaking of sinking.

He stole a momentary glance around, at the vast endless dark shimmering water. He never really bothered much to spend time around the ocean. He didn’t see the point, with all the business to be done in the heart of the city, with cards, dice, booze, and a million other vices to reap profit from. Never gave it much thought, maybe subconsciously avoiding something that….big.

No puddle should ever be that big. Why the hell was it that big, who needed that big of a fucking puddle. He asked himself this over and over, not quite sure why it was causing him so much distress. Where were the buildings, the snug alleys, the corners and streets. No. Just…empty, endless water.

His feet dug into the wood, switching back to stare sharply at Snow. A small nod from her, and the hand was off his mouth. He hit the metaphorical ground running, spewing a volcanic verbal assault her direction.

“YOU BITCH WHEN I GET OUTTA THIS I’LL FUCKIN RIP YA APART I’LL BLOW THE WHOLE GREEN HELLHOLE T’ BITS I’LL—”

He was cut short by the tip of the cigarette holder that reminded him an awful lot of his own weapons of preference, edging against his throat. He swallowed, teeth still bared but words caged inside for now. Slick was many things, but at least at this point, suicidal was not one of them. Besides…she always had a way to play him. “That’s better. Now, why don’t we wrap up this piece of business quickly, and then all go home before morning?” She tapped the sharp point against his jawline, and he growled softly. “Well…almost all of us.”Her hand ghosted over his cheek, making him grind his teeth and catch himself from howling in seething frustration…which was quickly giving way to equally seething uneasiness.

“How’d you like to take a swim, Spades?” Her voice slid over his ears like an eel darting into his brain, chilling him to the marrow. He was suddenly wound to the breaking point, irrationality leaking in like a slow IV drip. He didn’t want to be here, he wanted, needed to sprint away from the threatening black depths with everything he had. Fight or flight, and his head was, for once, screaming flight full throttle. He started thrashing again, barely given seconds before he was slammed down back-up onto the dock, face pressed against the wood with a yelp. His arms looped behind him, tied— well that wouldn’t be too hard, he’d slipped from this sort of thing before. On land, that is. His heart was making a racket in his chest like a jackhammer, a groan threatening to escape as he listened to the swish of waves beneath them . The tide drawing, sucking, carrying everything out to a vast dark hungry vacuum of water.

He didn’t have time to dwell on that, though, yanked up straight again, and in the process also having his thoughts yanked back to, oh, perhaps, actually finding a way of escaping this shit. He whipped his head around, first taking in the rope wound around his arms and attached to what looked like an exceptionally heavy cinder block. Oh. That can’t be good. His breath quickened like he’d been running for miles, now taking in everything else with a bladed gaze honed even sharper by sickening fear. Fear. He was afraid and it was damn near paralyzing, rendering him barely able to pilot his usual strategies.

Okay. Focus. Any second now they would be throwing him off and testing if the compact man built like a miniature, lean freight train could float even with that block dragging him down deeper. So focus, dammit. His notorious critical eye, studying, absorbing everything it saw, took it all in with a glance. There was Snow, still watching him casually. There holding him in place, the guy packing the heat— looked like it might be Quarters— and next to him— wait…

Oh hell no.

So that’s why he smelled so much dead fish. It was him. The past, the irritating guppy that always managed to get under his skin— not as much as Snow, but damn close. He thought he’d made himself pretty clear the last time they clashed, those slash marks and bites still tracing the shark’s neck and arms. Hehe, tracing…

For the last time, focus dammit. Point was, he thought they’d came to a kind of agreement. Not that it was a true stalemate; sometimes Trace got the upper hand, sometimes Slick. But they had a kind of begrudging understanding, two hunters in the midst of this whole mess, fighting it out when they crossed but otherwise leaving each other alone.

Looked like he thought wrong, the sharp-toothed slimy jerk staring with casual interest at the commotion, shining eyes staring almost indifferently. Almost. Just his luck, about to be thrown into the drink and having a goddamn sea bastard right in the thick of it. Slick spat in Trace’s direction just for the hell of it, barely getting a reaction, just narrowed eyes and a hiss. Whatever was eating the shark, it was keeping him from his usual predatory wrath, and that just drove Slick even further into his raging, terrified…thing. No one was picking a fight with him, because he was about to be thrown over anyway, so what was the point? His cornered gaze flicked back to Snow.

She sighed, smiling softly, too calmly for the sadistic self-important mind underneath. “I’ll be seeing you around, Spades…” She glided up like a barracuda, grabbing his chin and kissing him softly for a moment, too tenderly for their usual tussles. It felt like a goodbye kiss and it was dragging him far into the territory of panic. No, she couldn’t be actually killing him, they had something…Right? Shit, was she dumping him? And in dumping him, literally dumping him? Into the ocean?

He dug his heels into the wood as much as he could when the drew him closer to the edge. His breath caught, like a vice, like rope tightening in on his chest. No he would not let it turn audible he would not let mere hyperventilating turn into something else, his vocal chords tightening enough to let sound escape, a high pitched growl and yelp. The noise heightened when he was picked up clear off the ground, about to….shit this was really happening. They were going to kick over the dead weight into the water, and he would follow. And he would drown, relentless and consuming water just filling his lungs up as he sank deeper and deeper into that huge endless—

No. Hell no. Even if he was in this pathetic state of irrational hysteria, he wouldn’t just bow down to an anonymous watery grave. He could fight this, he could get out, swim— shit did he know how to swim? He’d never needed to swim before, you didn’t need to swim when you were stalking through alleys and pulling heists on solid ground.

Why the hell does this giant fucking puddle even exist.

Vaguely in the back of his mind he wondered what the hell he’d done to get Snow worked up enough to kill him. But then someone lugged the cinder block up, throwing it over like a shot put— a heavy-enough-to-kill-a-man shot put that immediately jerked Slick towards the water like a fish on a line— hell he did not need to be thinking in water puns right now, it was only making it worse. Not that it could be much worse, with his feet tripping out as he tried to dig into the pier. Shit this was it, he would have to react quickly if he wanted to—

The dumb muscle’s arms finally tossed him out, as if he needed anything other than the cement weight, but it just finalized the deal, a split hairline second of being weightless in midair, barely having enough time to inhale sharply from terror and actual common sense to hold the breath in as he crashed into the water. It was like getting eaten alive, just like he feared, he couldn’t fight it, it swallowed him whole in that cold icy suffocating maw where it didn’t matter who you were, and—

He was sinking. It was happening. For a moment he screamed, but quickly clamped his mouth shut as the priceless air flooded out, barely illuminated silver bubbles visible in his blurred vision. He had to focus his scattered attention on not gasping again, not inhaling that no-less-than hellish dark water, as good as swallowing a demon and letting it possess him, frigid death filling lungs, filling brain until he faded out.

Shit, don’t panic again. Just start escaping. He was as good as Houdini, that nearly-scrawny leanness coming in handy with slipping out of tight jams.

This was undoubtedly the tightest jam he’d been in, tight as a goddamn vice crunching down on his skull until he broke. And already he felt the burn in his chest, so he’d better start thinking like an actual semi-reasonable human being. He tried to get his bearings in the hazy murk, dragged down steadily. Okay, hands looped behind his back, that was the easy part— he shifted, tucking his knees in against his chest and— Shit….shit he needed to suck his chest in for this, needed to let out that precious air to wriggle his arms in front. Okay….it’s okay, he’s got shitty lungs from years of smoke soaking in them, but he can do this. He would have taken a deep breath to brace himself, but that would be really really stupid.

So just do it. He exhaled quickly, shimmying his arms down from his back and around like a jump rope, shoulders cracking slightly before he had them in front— WAIT SHIT. Now the dragging weight was pulling him from the front, and he was in a nose dive downward.

…How far down was the bottom? Hell, it couldn’t be that far, could it? Right? Don’t think about it, just work. Stay in the current action, just like he usually did. He started biting through the knots around his wrists, black starting to cloud his vision along with the searing pain in his throat, his chest, a numbness in his arms. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, maybe he could take a single breath, then at least he wouldn’t be distracted by the caustic burn in his lungs, he could— NO. Keep holding out, don’t let it in or slip down into it, the thick unending dark cold pressing in with the increasing depth and pressure. He was almost there, oh god please let him be almost there, the disgusting water was starting to fill his mouth as he chewed the rope and it was all he could do not to just…give in.

There. He almost cried with a smile if it weren’t for the paralyzing stab in his thoughts when he realized he still had to make it back to the surface. It was…so far up. He was at the bottom, tendrils and winding weeds, plants, debris swaying around him. The way some of it curled around in the shadows along with sliding forms, blurred as his eyes began to lose focus— it was like an uncanny echo from his days on Derse, staring out into the sky that was shifting tones of black, the impossible shapes of writhing Horrorterrors, the things every Dersite had learned to ignore and pass off as everyday. But years after he’d killed off Jack Noir and embraced Slick, years of putting away his past, and while drowning at the bottom of a harbor— it was only adding more layers of dread on top of him, weighing him down in the mud and endless depths.

He gave a single kick, trying to start himself up to floating— and remembered that he had no idea how to swim. He lurched, not making any headway upwards. He was at the end of the rope, he realized. There was no way he was making it back up, limbs starting to feel like alien parts of himself, unable to control, fading, fading…

He couldn’t keep it up, he had to breathe, even if it was breathing in death. The water was already in his mouth from before, threatening to spill and flood his throat, then his lungs, and then…

He realized he wasn’t going to make it. He was barely off the bottom, and everything was too starved of oxygen to move. Vision tunneling as he stared up at the barely visible dance of moonlight in the far-above surface, he hardly noticed his throat opening up, the thick water finally rushing in with a hopeless gasp. A wave of dark splotches came over his eyes, his entire body— the burning pain was still in his chest from the suffocation. But it didn’t matter, seeing as that was numbing too, everything numbing, fighting it useless.

In a deeper and deeper haze, he wondered why he’d acted so irrationally, why he hadn’t acted with his usual efficient speed to escape. Why a puddle, of all things, to get to him. The answer came slowly as he mused with fading thoughts, paralyzed like being trapped in amber. Dark, frigid, endless amber.

No matter how much he fought, it didn’t matter in the ocean. The ocean took no heed of his struggle, his efforts. No matter how much sweat and blood he put into it, he would still be in the same position. A powerless speck. An unremarkable grave.

And it reminded him of when his life had been for nothing, for someone else’s cause. When his fight for himself amounted to nothing. And now, after finally building up himself, into something worthwhile…? It didn’t matter, he couldn’t even take his death by the horns and go down swinging. He could just….fade out. Like he was doing now, water seeping in just as he’d dreaded, possessing, filling lungs, stomach, thoughts, everything.

Dimly as he started to slip out of consciousness, he saw something glide up to him, a sleek form of shadow against the nearly-as-dark background. Shit, was there an actual Death here to just pick him up? That’s stupid. He didn’t think much of it though, focused on…well, nothing. As the figure slid close, he realized it was familiar, the large eyes slitted in the cloudy water, under bite set into a hard line as he watched Slick for a moment.

That shark bastard.

Hands tugged him, not all too gentle about it, although that might have been what saved him, the pain bringing him back if just a hint. He was still gasping, finding no air but just more muddy bitter water, giving a weak thrashing in Trace’s grip. But then he was being dragged back up, shadows fading as they— or rather, Trace swam, Slick was pulled— back to the silvery surface. He might have blacked out a moment, even his will collapsing under the force of a thing he could never come eye-to-eye with, never climb out of on his own fight.

He didn’t notice when they broke to the surface, when he was surrounded by good air instead of that vile watery mess. He didn’t notice when Trace pulled him back on the dock, the rest of the Felt long gone. He was as good as dead, eyes glazed over and still thinking fuzzily that the stars and clouds were in fact the still ever-distant surface of water he would never break out of. The life he’d never break out of, never amount to much, no matter how many times he built himself up or strove to carve out his own identity.

Then Trace was pressing the water out of him— Trace of all people— and he choked, still unable to breathe. Oh hell no, he was not going to— Lips that tasted like the ocean, fish, and death met his for a second, pressing down air into his water-logged lungs. He gagged, pushing him away and forcing himself to curl over to the side. Hell, he had to live now, if only to get that vile taste out of his mouth. Again he coughed, the water gushing out now as he rolled onto his knees, elbows propping himself weakly, even if he was constantly slipping, a little doubtful if he would ever stand up again or think straight.

Finally he finished spouting water like some kind of sick fountain, shuddering and staying there, leaning into the solid wood beneath him almost religiously. After a few moments of sitting without a single thought in his head, he glanced up, looking more like a drowned rat than anything else, shivering in the drenched cold and after-shakes of the trauma.

The shark stared down at him, expression unreadable. “Snow says that next time won’t end so nicely.”

So that’s what this all was. A fucking scare, to “put him in his place” or something. To show him that Snow would always be playing him, playing his fears, even his loyal hatred. This was nearly as bad as actually drowning— either way, he was pushed down for every step forward he took. He growled, coughing again but still staying hunched over, unable to balance himself off his elbows.

But that couldn’t be everything. He studied Trace more closely, that odd combination of expressions in his face. Contempt, although that was probably just as much about his reaction to water as anything else. Rivalry, sure.

And… something. Nothing near a true connection, they weren’t going to be buddy-buddy or some stupid shit. But he had the feeling Trace deemed him a hunter not too unlike himself, and that changed things. Given the chance, Trace would kill him. Given the chance, Slick would rip out his throat with a knife and leave him on the ground. But all predators recognized the need for a certain kind of death. A death where you faced it, where you could go down in a blaze of destruction on both sides. No nameless grave at the bottom of the harbor could give that.

Orders or no orders, Trace saved Slick from that.

With that, the streamlined Felt turned and slunk off from the docks back to the heart and hidden corners of the city, leaving Slick to recompose himself, sprawled out under the pitiless black sky of smoky clouds and dead stars, an oily moon lighting up the town he built. The town he built, and yet he still was left doubting his worth in the end of things.

He made a mental note to never go back to the waterfront, let the other members deal with that nightmare while he stuck with what he knew, shadowed alleys and the comforting press of concrete skyline.

When he caught up with the rest of the Crew, he didn’t mention much of anything that had occurred, even when Droog scolded the awful stench and soaking of dank harbor water that smelled a little like wet dog on Slick.He didn’t say a word, keeping it under lock and key and burying it.

Let it sink to the bottom of his own murky soul.

Wait for it to, inevitably, wash ashore for the world to see.


End file.
